trajectory CHAPTER FOUR: THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL

Callen's face was alight with wonder, confused though it was. As he followed Martha through the door and into the house, he found himself blinking against the vivid warmth of the scene before him while Martha flicked on the lights. It wasn't his eyes, however, that required adjustment to this new illumination.

This is… not the same.

A smile began to tug tentatively at the reluctant corner of his mouth, and though he tried to suppress it, it spread until his teeth were revealed in a rapturous grin so wide that it forced a happy tear - the first of its kind - from his eye. He brought a hand to his mouth, as much to convey his awe as to hide the joy it evoked.

"This is your home?" Callen had said those same words only moments before, but they carried the sting of bitter disappointment then. Now they were hopeful, heartened, spoken with admiration. Almost covetous.

"That it is. It's not fancy, but it is home," Jonathan replied. He was startled and deeply moved when Callen flung his arm toward him, making contact with his shoulder and grabbing a handful of Jonathan's coat. He was startled further still by the fervor with which the boy's gaze met his.

"This is a palace," Callen whispered in earnest, punctuating the statement with piercing eyes before turning them again on the interior of the house. He released Jonathan's shoulder and stepped deeper into the room, visually drinking in every detail of the space. There were colors and textures and even shapes in this new place that his existence thus far had never exposed him to. Ginghams and florals and rich wood hues, soft light from table lamps, sentimental artifacts that had no use or monetary value. The stuff of fiction, as in Callen's life, only fiction had shown him these things.

And it was fiction that drew his attention next. Set against the wall, he noted a shelf of well-loved classics. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Little Women, The Hobbit, Anne of Green Gables, The Chronicles of Narnia, Pride and Prejudice… there were at least another dozen titles, most of which he'd read, but two words on the spine of one particularly aged volume took both his breath and his defenses.

"Nicholas Nickelby?" Callen tore the book from the shelf and turned it over in his hands as if assuring himself that it wasn't merely an apparition. "You've read Nicholas Nickelby?"

Martha nodded and stepped up to him, placing a hand over his on top of the book. "Yes, we've both read it. Is it a favorite of yours?" She searched behind his eyes, fearing she might know the reason he felt such an affinity with the text.

Callen nodded, then shook his head. "No - well, yes it is, but - it's not my favorite exactly, it's more… it's my story."

Martha's resilience crumbled against the sob that had collected in her throat, and Jonathan dropped his face into his hands. It was no mystery now why the boy had shied away from being touched.

"You… you mean Smike?" Martha queried cautiously, referring to the most tragic character of the Charles Dickens novel, who suffered at the hands of a wicked schoolmaster and his wife in the North of England until a young man who'd been sent there to teach - Nicholas Nickelby - altered his fate by standing up to Wackford Squeers, the schoolmaster, thereby securing freedom for them both. But somehow, both Jonathan and Martha sensed that it was not Nicholas with whom Callen identified - a thought which wrenched their hearts collectively. "Were you at a school like that? Like Dotheboys Hall?"

Callen shook his head again. "No. I've never been to school. I lived in a place like this - a farm - but the house wasn't like this at all. And the people weren't like you. They were like Mr. and Mrs. Squeers. On their good days, at least." He tagged on the last line with a snickering sneer, belying a sense of wounded humor.

Without warning, Martha threw her arms around him, embracing him tightly. He instinctively struggled for a moment at first, but allowed himself to relax against her when her grip on him tightened.

"Oh, Callen, I'm so sorry," she cried, and he felt the dampness of her tears seeping through his sweater.

Tears of his own came up again, but this time he noticed, because this time - for the first time - they were for someone else's pain. "Why are you sorry?" He wondered aloud, slowly - very slowly - raising his arms to return her embrace. It felt so foreign to him; he couldn't remember the last time he'd been hugged. In truth, he couldn't remember a first time. Callen pushed Martha away just enough to see her face. "Why should you be sorry?"

Martha couldn't find the words with which to respond. She'd thought of a thousand things over the past twelve years that she could have done differently that day, any small detail that might have meant she'd have been out of the overturned truck with her arms around the little boy before those boots came into view. Everything would have been different then. He wouldn't have been living the darkest side of a Dickens' novel for more than a decade, he would have been there, with them - a Kent - and who knew what else? What might he have been like?

Before anyone could speak again, Callen's eyelids fluttered and his knees buckled, and though he quickly regained his balance, it was clear that the boy was fatigued. Martha, her arms still encircling him, laid a steadying hand on his back.

Jonathan swallowed and tried to nonchalantly wipe away a tear of his own. "Why don't we all try and get some sleep?"

Callen looked confused. "We just need a little sunlight."

Jonathan and Martha glanced at each other, bewildered. "Sunlight?"

Callen nodded. "Of course we have to sleep some time, but for now…" he paused and looked at the faces of his two hosts. They both looked exhausted. "Well, actually, I could definitely use some sleep," he conceded, and yawned for effect. Inwardly, he was shocked at himself for doing so - yawning in front of authority figures. What must they think? How could he have let himself feel so at ease so quickly?

Martha gave Callen a final squeeze before releasing him, albeit reluctantly. "Well then… I'll show you to your room. You'll want to put on fresh sheets though, I haven't changed them in a while. I can do that for you."

Callen followed her toward the stairs and smiled to himself. "Anything you have already is perfect. Don't go to any trouble for me."

Martha turned around on the stairs, a bit faster than she'd intended, and caught both Callen and Jonathan, who brought up the rear, a little off guard. "Oh no - please, I want to. I'd really like to."

Callen merely nodded his assent. "Oh - okay, if you want to." He glanced over his shoulder at Jonathan, who smiled warmly. Facing forward again, Callen continued climbing the stairs and was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling he'd never experienced before - someone going before him to prepare his way, someone following after him without malice - someone whose very presence didn't make him feel ill. He felt… protected.

Arms laden with sheets and pillowcases, Martha allowed Jonathan to open the door and lead the way into a darkened room. It was fairly sparse, but warm all the same. Callen had no way of knowing, but it would have already been his if he'd come home with them a dozen years before.